Lost in Hotels

by Martin, M.

  “What about my stuff?” the American in her interjects.

  “You think they want your ten-year-old MacBook Pro? He’ll watch it for you,” I say, gesturing to the waiter summoned from our sudden movement.

  “You’ll watch it for her, right?” I nod my head even though the waiter doesn’t really appear to understand what I said, and then I grab her drink and take it to the ledge.

  She follows hesitantly, positioning herself a safe distance behind me as I pull her to the narrow ledge. The sun’s yellow ray’s burn to a darker orange with purple and pink edges that feel as if they want to touch the favela of Vidigal that rises on the hilltop behind Leblon.

  “Why do I have the feeling you’ve done this before?” she says, negating the moment. “You in your Gucci loafers and belted dress pants.”

  The sarcasm interrupts the magic of the moment, and I don’t dare deliver a sharper rebuttal or we’ll miss the sunset entirely.

  “Now, just watch what happens,” I whisper as the people sitting behind us rise to their feet and the descending sun slips into the crescent shape that, as a child, I thought looked like my thumbnail. The sun becomes just a sliver and smaller and smaller and then nothing.

  Then, in the immediate absence of the sun, she looks into my eyes, pulling away with her lower body but coming closer with her stare that makes her feel inches away.

  As if beckoned by the gods, a clamor draws her eyes away and onto the distant horizon. She gazes somewhere far out at sea as the noise comes closer and closer. Obscure but intense, a wave of sound erupts into a more familiar applause that envelopes the far beach and then closer and closer until it passes upon us as the residents of Rio, both temporary and forever, begin clapping as if it was the first or most beautiful sunset they had ever seen.

  The sound is so intense it washes both of us away in the moment, and guests behind us applaud in a mixture of whistles and catcalls. Catherine leans in with a push on my shoulder as if to say, “hello” or “thank you” or “you were right.” As the sound returns to passing buses and waiters clearing the lounge chairs of the day’s towels and glasses, Catherine lingers with me at the glassy ledge.

  “I think that was the most incredible sunset I’ve ever witnessed,” she says in humble honesty.

  “And even though they see it every day, they appreciate it as if it were the first time.”

  “Does that happen all the time?” Her forehead is peaked under her long hair blowing in the wind.

  “You’ll have to come back tomorrow night and see.”

  “I kind of wish this trip would end right now. I have to say, it’s been the best thing I’ve experienced in Rio so far.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I have to say, I really don’t get this city; it’s not at all what I was expecting,” she continues.

  “What were you expecting?” I echo in dismay.

  “Maybe it’s just the wrong time of year or something, but I expected to find young lovers lost in passion on endless street corners, and the girls from Ipanema lost in this exotic fog of Rio,” she says as if looking to fulfill her own romantic fantasy in which I wouldn’t mind participating.

  “Maybe you just didn’t find the right guy to show you until now.”

  “No, no, no, you’re taking it the wrong way.” She attempts to backpedal. “I’m just saying that there is supposed to be this primal and exotic utopia where everyone feels sexy and desired, but instead, I found much more of a frenetic city pace and urban grind, albeit mostly in beachwear, but more or less what I face every day in New York.”

  “Could it be that possibly, and just hear me out, that you were too focused on finding something preconceived, instead of allowing it to evolve around you? I can assure you, there was probably someone who desired you on this very rooftop, let alone while wandering the city the last few days.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” she replies genuinely, “but as a writer, you are really more of a voyeur looking for it at a distance rather than trying to find it for yourself. And then the only good thing I’ve had to eat was the pasta and orange juice from the room-service menu.”

  “What about the beach or shopping or the flea market?” I ask.

  I want to tell her that she’s captivated me since seeing her in the airport, but I realize she’s the type to cower under such compliments. She seems entirely unaware of her beauty and a bit uncomfortable even to address it, which makes her even more desirable.

  “The beach was kind of dirty, which I hate to even say because it’s so incredible from afar. I was just expecting Rio to wow me, to whisk me away right off the bat. I asked about shopping, and they sent me to a horrible mall that’s a forty-dollar cab ride away and full of Western stores. And then there’s that flea market.”

  “Yes, it’s supposed to be great, right?”

  “Wrong. It was some disgusting warehouse called a flea market because it literally has fleas, I think, and is filled with weird eighties office furniture and not nearly the collection of hidden Niemeyer treasures I was expecting.”

  Catherine seems easily disappointed, or perhaps a woman who wants things exactly as she expects them with little deviation. Our conversation lingers past dusk and into the evening as the bar fills with a dressier clientele and my lack of shirt hidden with a towel begins to look more and more out of place.

  “Can I tell you what the best part of my day has been so far?” I say, knowing perhaps that it’s going too far.

  “What? Do tell,” she replies with her near-empty glass in hand.

  “It’s been sitting here watching you look away from me and at the view behind me. I’ve watched your eyes gaze to this other place just over my shoulder, and I love seeing your mind get lost between our conversations.”

  “I hope I haven’t been rude; it’s just that the colors are so vivid it takes me to another place. I guess it’s that side of Rio I do like.”

  In my mind, I envision sharing room service with her in my room. Then I would bend her over the terrace, or in the living room, and she would straddle me on the Eames chair backward and then forward. But I can tell Catherine is a different sort of woman, one who wants candlelit dinners and handholding on the beach with a man who lives up to whatever is stirring in that always-busy mind of hers.

  Before she retreats, and she will, the best plan is to beat her to it.

  “So this is where I say good-bye,” I say under a Fasano towel in dim light as waiters wait for us to clear away from the table and let them set up for the next guests.

  “It is rather late, and I should get some work done,” Catherine interjects.

  “So do I … I should have started awhile ago.”

  Catherine rises and extends her hand as I lift from my seat. Something about her makes me crave her more, and it isn’t just the physical.

  “So, listen,” I delay, “I’m not sure how my day is going to unfold tomorrow, but there is a slight, ever slight, chance I could wrap up by lunch.”

  “That’s really not possible, I’m not really—” Catherine attempts to shoot me down before I interrupt her.

  “I mean, this is purely on the basis that you’re doing this town, and you will be doing your readers a great injustice if you leave here not having been somewhat moved or affected by this truly incredible city.”

  “I’m not totally negative on Rio; it’s just that it hasn’t been as I expected,” she replies.

  “Please, let me have three quick hours to show you some things I truly love, and then we will say our good-byes … no harm done.”

  “Three hours? You think you can make me love Rio in just three hours?”

  “Absolutely, but no more than three hours or my girlfriend will get jealous.” I say this like a verbal spike strip, even though I am thoroughly single, to halt her trepidation as I begin to walk away.

  “
Wait, I haven’t agreed to this yet,” Catherine sparks.

  “Oh, and another thing … all you can wear are shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt.” I point to her wrists and white linen outfit. “No jewelry, no purse, no fancy stuff … just shorts and flip-flops and we go.”

  “Shorts and flip-flops?” she muses. “I guess I can sort that out.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow in the lobby at three o’clock. Don’t be late, and don’t stand me up.”

  “Stand you up?”

  “Yes, I can see the excuses in your eyes already, Catherine. Spontaneity is part of getting Rio.”

  I turn away with a fading wave as she returns to her computer and her bag and her American stuff that will probably take her another hour to pull together so she can leave.

  Back in my room, I feel a quietness that’s reminiscent of my overall life. There are no urgent personal calls to a family or girlfriend to make. There is no rushing for dinner plans or places I’m expected. There’s just the work, the room, and me. I roll through the door pulling my clothes off in a single yank and draw open the shades that look over an evening Rio beach still teeming with life even in darkness.

  As I stand naked, the small kiosks that sell juices and coffees still perk to life as barefoot businessmen run off their day, grandmothers walk one pace at a time with strollers in tow, and teenagers sludge around attempting to find mischief. I imagine dinner at Sushi Leblon or a drive to Aprazivel in Santa Teresa with someone other than myself, but tonight it’s only me at this tiny table and the work—truly the only constant in my life.

  Little did I know the next morning would begin my last day in Rio. Most of my work would be in vain, and my time here was going to be cut short, as my company discontinued their plans to acquire Adib, the Rio advertising company, due to “non-transparent accounting practices” that made the value of their operation infeasible to calculate for an outside buyer.

  Sadly, my company didn’t communicate this to me before yet another all-nighter and a commute to those musty offices that were actually a bit more charming when I knew it was my final day. I used to have a feeling of failure when deals like this would simply collapse after weeks, sometimes months, of working on them. Now, I just see it with excitement for where and what is next to come, providing I get out before having to see the disappointed business owners who don’t always greet the news as well as they did in Rio.

  A layer of cloud cover blankets the Rio sky, not so much that it’s raining, but just enough to shade me on my return to the hotel under the penetrating sun. I had enough time from work to take a quick shower, and promptly at three o’clock, I arrive in the lobby wearing even less than suggested—a spare pair of beach shorts and flip-flops.

  “Well, hello there.”

  Catherine is already there, popping her head up from the lounge with a bag in hand and an asymmetrical T-shirt that dips around her breasts and covers her simple swimsuit. She beams with no lingering hesitation or previous negativity to detract from our day.

  “So no,” I say even before hello. “This is not what I said you should wear. You want to homogenize with the locals in Rio. So tie that thingy around your waist,” I say, pointing to her scarf-like shawl, “and leave your bag here.”

  “What if I buy something or need money?” she responds as she hands me the bag.

  “I got it today; just leave it at the front desk.”

  With business cleared from my mind, the day is as much about having fun for me as it is showing the American around Rio. In our coordinated Fasano flip-flops, we set out under an uncertain sky along my favorite street just around the corner from the hotel. R. Farme de Amoedo is lined by attractive, yet unassuming apartment blocks from the seventies interspersed with newer construction that blends into the sky of converted balconies, satellite dishes, and outdated antennas. A busier corner approaches with overflowing shops and cafés on all four corners. I wave to the coffee woman who chats at me every morning across from the greasy chicken place with its 3:00 a.m. hamburgers and hangover breakfast platters.

  Part of falling in love with Rio is knowing which streets to take when walking and which strips of endless concrete and traffic to avoid. Keeping a speedy pace even in flip-flops, I see Catherine looking at the windows of Osklen with its sexy-surf style, which she’s obviously never seen before, and studying each of the passing men in their utilitarian business suits, and teenagers with impossibly perfect skin and edgy hair that suits their skimpy beach outfits. We pause in front of a small kiosk on the park with the words Sushi Cone written in bold neon lights.

  “Um, no thank you.” Catherine backs away from the window as I step closer.

  “Sushi is a big deal in all of Brazil, part of the country’s fascination with staying fit,” I say with a show of my abs. “And it’s so refreshing, even on a hot day.”

  Catherine wrinkles her face in disagreement.

  “They eat it everywhere, including to-go with scoops of tartars and sashimi … that’s going to be the best snack you’ve ever tasted.”

  She still hesitates.

  “Just try it, I promise.” I handed Catherine her first cone, a salmon one, which tends to be the safest bet for first-timers.

  Catherine goes in for a bite, turning the cone with its sesame seeds and wasabi powder, to find the most approachable side. She goes in with her teeth, demure and tactful, making certain no pieces fall, and making the napkin she took in her hand unnecessary.

  “Oh my god,” she gushes with a partially full mouth.

  “And it’s even cold, right?” I say sarcastically, watching for her smile and nod of agreement before I take my first bite.

  “The first hour or so I’d stay close to a bathroom just in case,” I say in jest.

  I like that she’s unafraid to try something out of her comfort zone, trusting my guidance as I lead her through the parts of Rio that inspire me so much, and yet I’ve never really had the chance to share in conversation with anybody.

  “So you travel all the time for your job, David. Do you ever get sick of it?” Catherine asks.

  “I love it. It takes me to these amazing cities and allows me to feel like I’m a part of them for a few weeks or months. Normally, when people travel, by the time they get to know a place, it’s time to leave. This way, I really get to feel like I’ve lived and felt each place.”

  “Don’t you miss home or your family?”

  “You know, it’s not for everybody, I guess. But I love it.”

  “So how much longer will you be here?”

  “Actually, you have me on my last day,” I say, looking into her eyes to heighten the stakes. “But no pressure, you have all day to fall in love.”

  “What? To fall in love with you?”

  “Rio … all day to fall in love with Rio,” I clarify.

  “Well, I am quite honored, and I’m already seeing a side of this city I like a lot more.”

  Catherine’s eyes linger on the surfers who pass her way and they linger with their eyes. She studies the small home shops and magazine racks and points out the publication she works for in the United States.

  “This is the magazine I work for back home. Have you seen it before?” she asks, pointing to the periodical that’s tucked in the back of a second shelf and covered in plastic.

  “That would be a negative, but perhaps I’m not really the demographic, am I?”

  “You know, it’s not Vogue, but it pays the bills and allows me to travel a lot.”

  “So, travel writing, mainly?”

  “A mix, but mostly I write the cover stories and stalk celebrities to be on the cover.”

  “So you meet most of them. That has to be exciting.”

  “Sadly, most of them don’t live up to what you imagine. But I try to remember it’s just a job for them, and they’re not really trying to be my friend.”

 
“Does anyone live up to what we make him or her out to be in our minds?”

  “I’d like to think so, otherwise, that’s such a grim outlook on life,” she says having pondered the idea deeper and with more emotion than myself.

  By late afternoon, the humidity has almost become intolerable, and we tuck into Doce Delicia, a fashionable café along Rua Aníbal de Mendonça with the best salads and generous pours of rosé around. Inside, the honey-colored woods look freshly oiled along the floor with simple rosewood chairs and cheery striped cushions. Catherine and I take a seat in a quiet corner.

  “So tell me about you … where is your family from in the states?” I ask as I spread a starched white napkin across my lap.

  “My parents live in Albany where I grew up,” she says as if starting a longer story.

  “And they’re still happily married?” I ask as she stays safely on her side of the four-top table, but her legs are so close that I can feel the warmth of her body radiating to my bare knee.

  “Well, they’re still married, but I’m not sure how happily. They are that couple who stayed together for the kids, and when they were finally empty nesters, they decided that companionship was better than being alone even if they weren’t in love with each other anymore.”

  “That’s exactly why I don’t believe in marriage. How can you love without passion? That’s why I think relationships are only supposed to last for a few years, maybe ten, tops, and then it’s simply in our DNA to want more.”

  “And by more you mean what, exactly?”

  “It’s that chase, that seeing a woman for the first time and being able to do nothing but think about her and being with her over and over again to the point that you’re almost mad. I can’t imagine being at a point in life, in a marriage, that you could never look forward to that again.”

  “And your parents, where are they? In England, I assume?”

  “My parents are quite happily married,” I say with a pause, “in heaven.”

  I smile as Catherine chuckles loud enough to draw the attention of the table nearest us with two older Brazilian woman eating triangular slices of white-frosted cake.